Saudade
by snuggalong
Summary: "We always knew we might end up like that. Torn apart by duty…on opposite ends of a battlefield…" He was Australia, first and foremost, and Mathias was Denmark, first and foremost. Their nations would always, always come first. He had always known that. They had always known that. He simply hadn't anticipated how much it could hurt. -DenmarkAustralia, drabbleish, angst-
1. PART ONE

**Saudade**

* * *

_(n): a Portugese or Galician word for a feeling of nostalgic longing for something or someone that one was fond of and which has been lost. It often carries a fatalist tone and a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never really return. It was once described as "the love that remains" or "the love that stays" after someone is gone._

* * *

PART ONE

* * *

Jett awoke to the shrill ring of the telephone, blinking in sleepy disorientation at the ceiling for a few moments before the sound registered.

He rolled with a yawn, reaching for the phone, and even as he did he felt a cold weight of dread settle in his stomach; the fluorescent display of his clock informed him in clinical green numbers that it was 3:07 in the morning.

By that glow he could also see the number of the person calling. His boss.

Nothing good came of calls from his boss at 3:07 in the morning.

"Hello?" he asked, voice hoarse from sleep. "Julia? Is that you? What's wrong?"

"It's me," she replied, sounding stressed and tired. "And I'd be hard pressed to tell you something that isn't wrong, right now."

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, suddenly much more awake. "Julia, please don' beat around the bush; jus' tell me what's wrong."

"Australia is going to war, Jett."

Jett froze, blood turning to ice in his veins. "…_what_? But- how- with _who-" _

"I can't tell you the details right now; it's not safe. Just get up, get dressed, and get down here as soon as you can."

"I can be there in 20 minutes," Jett told her, swiftly calculating how long it would take him to throw on some clothes and get into Canberra. He _could_ make it in 20 minutes…if he broke a couple of traffic laws.

His train of thought was cut off by Julia. "Jett, there's something you need to know," she told him, and he was surprised to hear how hesitant she sounded. "It's…about Mathias."

The thought of his lover had not crossed his mind yet, but in that moment the pit of dread in his stomach doubled in intensity. "…what about him?" he asked, in a voice that sounded unnaturally high even to his ears. "Is Denmark a part of this too? Well, I guess that's sort of a relief to hear, someone-"

"They are," Julia cut him off again. "But…not as our allies."

Jett's heart stopped. His eyes widened in shock, the phone nearly slipping from his fingers. "…what?" he whispered, feeling like a broken record. He had to have heard her wrong. There was no way that she had said what he'd thought she'd said that Denmark and Australia—that he and Mathias—

_Not as our allies._

"I'm sorry, Jett," she told him, and he knew she was, but apologies hardly mattered in that moment. He lifted his free hand to press against his eyes, trying to force down the rising ache. Silence reigned between them for several long moments.

"…it's fine," he finally said. He was lying through his teeth and they both knew it, but what else could he say? "Australia will always come first to me, Julia, ya don' have to worry about me bein' able to do what I have to do."

She didn't even bother to defend herself against the implied accusation.

"I'll see ya in twenty minutes," he told her, voice flat, and hung up before she could reply.

He sat there, in the darkness, and wondered how on earth it had come to this. They—he and Mathias—they'd never really talked about what they would do, if they ended up in this situation.

On opposite sides of a battlefield.

_**Beep.**_

His head snapped up in surprise at the sound, his cell phone informing him of an incoming text message. He reached for it, thinking perhaps it was Julia with some important piece of information she had forgotten to tell him in the first place, only to feel his throat close up at the name on the screen.

_**Mathias**_

What could he possibly have to say? They were enemies, now, why was he saying anything at all?

It was a long moment before Jett could bring himself to press _View Now. _

**To: Jett**  
**From: Mathias  
Subject: [Blank]**

Do what you have to do, and I'll do the same

…for what it's worth, I'm sorry

**Received: 3:17 AM **

Jett could only stare at the message. 17 words. An order, and an apology. And Jett knew, knew beyond anything else, exactly what that apology was for—not for what Mathias, what Denmark, was doing, but for the heartbreak.

The heartbreak Jett was refusing to let himself feel, because he _couldn't_ care about himself, now. He was Australia, first and foremost, and Mathias was Denmark, first and foremost. Their nations would always, always come first.

He had always known that. They had always known that. He simply hadn't anticipated how much it could _hurt. _

But his pain didn't matter, anymore. Apologies didn't matter. Nothing mattered, except war.

_**Are you sure you wish to erase this message?**_

"I don't need your apologies," Jett whispered, and stood to go find his uniform.

_**Message erased.**_

* * *

Explanation needed? Methinks so. This entire story - all eleven parts - has already been written and posted on my tumblr. There I follow two glorious roleplayers - kingofscandinavia and wegotkangarooshere - whose characters are together. A while back the Australia roleplayer posted their own drabble along this vein; what if they ended up on opposite sides of WWIII? It got me thinking and I asked them for permission to write my own version. Which I did. This story is the result. I don't think too much of the back story of the relationship is needed; most of what you need to know is revealed as it goes along.

As I said it's all already written, so it should all be up within a few weeks.

...you would not believe how hard it was to find a good title when on tumblr it was just know as THAT FIC THAT LIKES TO STAB PEOPLE RIGHT IN THE HEART.

(Original title courtesy of the Aussie roleplayer themselves, so be forewarned.)


	2. PART TWO

**Saudade**

* * *

PART TWO

* * *

For a few months, it was easy to pretend. The thousands of miles between them, once the bane of their existence, now morphed into a blessing, keeping them continuously far apart as the war raged on closer fronts.

It was easy to pretend they weren't enemies. Easy to pretend that the next time they met, it wouldn't be on opposite sides of a battlefield, that they wouldn't be trying their hardest to tear the other apart.

It was so easy to pretend, but that didn't make it easier to forget.

Jett stared blankly at the sky. It was vast and blue and _beautiful_—beautiful was something there hadn't been much of, lately—but he wasn't seeing it.

No, in this brief respite, his thoughts were miles and miles away from where he was at the moment—somewhere in the Philippines, at last check—

—somewhere around 10000 miles away, if he were being truly honest with himself.

_Any day now…_ he thought absently, and was actually surprised that the thought didn't bring the usual stab of trepidation with it.

Maybe this war was finally driving him to numbness.

"Sir?"

He looked up, eyes quickly focusing on the young soldier in front of him, who looked to be trying his very hardest not to fidget.

Jett tried to grin, to put him at ease, but all he managed was a small smile and a raised eyebrow. "Yes?"

The young man took a deep breath, and then spoke again. "I have news from the teams stationed on the coast, sir."

Jett's other eyebrow went up. "And?" he prompted him, trying to ignore the sudden twist of anxiety in his stomach.

"Radar picked up what appeared to be pair of scouting aircraft yesterday, sir. And from the report of the one man who caught a glimpse…the design appears to be Danish in origin."

Something inside of Jett went ice cold. "How positive was he?" he asked, not allowing himself a beat to pause.

"Fairly positive, sir. Above 90%."

Jett let out a long, low breath, the only allowance he would give himself at the moment. "Right then," he murmured, then looked back up. "Tell the coastal teams to be on high alert," he ordered. "And alert the squad leaders of the same information. If they were scouting, they're likely to arrive soon. We may have the environmental advantage, but we don't know where or when they'll come."

The soldier nodded. "Yes, sir."

"…dismissed," Jett told him, and it was only once he walked away that he allowed himself to sag, just a little.

The hell of the last few months, he knew, was nothing compared to what was coming.

* * *

Jett swore loudly, but it was drowned out by the explosion several hundred meters away as yet another plane crashed to the earth. He stumbled briefly with the force of the tremors before swiftly regaining his feet, just in time to twist and put a bullet into the head of the man who had attempted to sneak up behind him in his momentary disorientation.

He forced himself not to look at the uniform as he turned away, eyes peeled for more. He didn't want to know.

With dust, debris, smoke, and flames everywhere, he had no idea if they were winning or losing. He could only hope that it was the former, considering that the ambush had come when they least expected it.

A sharp whistling noise from above and to the right had him sprinting, barely managing to dive behind what was either a stone outcropping or the mangled remains of a plane, he couldn't care less so long as it kept the worst of the blast away from him. Shrapnel flew and bit into his uniform, dug into his skin. He gritted his teeth and waited for the roar to die away.

It was so clichéd and anti-climactic he could have gagged.

As he stood, warily watching the skies for the glint of another falling bomb, a flash of blonde in his peripheral vision had him turning, had him stopping, had him paling.

Less than 30 meters away from him was Mathias, emerging from a rut in the earth that he had obviously been using as shelter.

Stupidly, Jett stood there and stared, mind suddenly at a standstill. And as he stared, Mathias looked up, taking in the new layout of his surroundings, and spotted him.

Mathias froze.

He looked paler, Jett thought almost absently, though it was hard to tell beneath the grime. Thinner, too, ragged and bruised and—

and—

His eyes were still the same, that same blue, though harder and more exhausted than he had ever seen them and—

And Jett had sworn to himself that if it ever came to this moment, this one moment, he wouldn't hesitate, he would lift his gun and he would-

he would—

—_how the hell can I— _

The whistling registered to both of them in the same instant, the moment he hadn't even realized they were having broken, replaced by the rush of adrenaline that sent Jett diving back behind the plane and Mathias back into the rut in the ground.

By the time the smoke and the debris and the worst of the flames had settled and Jett had emerged once more, Mathias was already gone.

He managed to convince himself that the only tremors he was feeling were those from the earth shattering beneath his feet.

* * *

Feel I should mention that this story is less based on the actual war itself than it is on what said war does to Jett, Mathias, and their relationship.

It's only going to get more dramatic and angsty from here, folks.


	3. PART THREE

**Saudade**

* * *

PART THREE

* * *

Jett didn't dare move.

Didn't dare breathe.

Didn't dare do anything but remain absolutely still, slightly cross-eyed as he stared with wide eyes down the barrel of the gun pointed at his head.

_And so it comes to this. _

But this was no cliché. They were not standing, lost in a deadlock of eyes, in the middle of a raging battlefield.

No memories, no sentimentality, no hesitation, _no mercy_.

Jett knew that if he moved a muscle, he would die at the hands of the man before him, and _might_ be granted a single kick to the ribs before he was left to rot on this forest floor.

So there he stood, with nothing but the dark to see by, a gun cocked at his head and eyes that used to be so warm—_to him, at least—_watching his every twitch with knife-like coldness.

He was such a fool—if he himself couldn't forget, how could he expect Mathias to?

They'd come to know each other almost inside and out, even in the brief time they'd had together.

Of course Mathias would know he would always offer to take the most dangerous assignment before he'd let any other man do it—say, a night reconnaissance mission in enemy territory.

Of course he knew how Jett's mind worked—close enough to see and maybe to hear, but far enough not to be caught.

Of course he would be waiting, knowing he would come eventually.

_Do what you have to do, and I'll do the same. _

Jett was quite sure he was going to die—was surprised he hadn't yet. How long had they stood here, now?

He straightened, and watched the gun jerk, settling dead between his eyes. However, Jett did not reach for his gun, resting at his side—nor for the knives, hidden up his sleeves. He knew he would die before he could touch either.

He bent his head, just the smallest incline—

—_just the smallest sign of giving in, of giving up— _

"If you're goin' to kill me," he murmured, barely a breath. "Then please just get it over with."

He heard the sharp intake of air and could only wonder at what it meant.

_If I'm to die, I'd rather it be by your hands, than those of the nameless, faceless nobody that would shoot me in the back. _

For a moment, there was silence. And then, there was movement—

—the flash of darkness off of steel—

—a sharp whistling—

—pain, exploding in the side of his head—

—blackness swarming his vision—

—the sensation of falling—of having fallen—

And then everything was gone, save for five whispered words that would haunt his dreams—but that he would never remember in his waking hours.

"_I don't have the strength."_

* * *

This was the one that was supposed to be quite a bit longer, but decided to end itself once that last line was written. Silly thing. ...in case it was unclear, Mathias did not shoot him.


	4. PART FOUR

**Saudade**

* * *

PART FOUR

* * *

Jett woke up alone. This, he was used to.

He was _not,_ however, used to waking up in a drab, cold, gray cell with absolutely no memory of how he had come to be there in the first place.

He sat bolt upright—only to immediately lie back down as the world spun and threatened to blank out around him. White-hot pain lanced through his head, and it was all he could do not to make a sound.

Eventually the pain subsided to a piercing—but manageable—migraine, and Jett slowly opened his eyes, staring at the featureless ceiling above him and trying to get some sense of his bearings.

Or at least, as much as he could _without sitting up. _

He was in a cell, that much was obvious. Prisoner of the enemy, also pretty obvious, he didn't think Australia had gotten into the habit of locking up their own soldiers without good cause.

He was on a cot with one small pillow and—he glanced around as best he could—one small blanket that had somehow ended up on the floor.

The dull ache behind his eyes sent his fingers probing cautiously at his skull, and he discovered it to be wrapped in a few loops of bandages, protecting what felt like a rather nasty lump on the side of his head.

How the hell—_who_ the hell—

—_oh. _

Jett pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes as memories rushed in to fill the cracks and the previously empty spaces, only aggravating the pain in his head as they jostled to be remembered first.

_The mission—the forest—the gun—telling him to kill me—pain—darkness—_

—_him— _

_Mathias. _

Mathias…had not killed him. And he had absolutely no idea why.

Something was pressing on the edges of his mind, some snippet of memory trying to be remembered_—_

—but right now, it hurt far too much to even think. He knew he _should _be thinking, should be planning, should be analyzing the situation and figuring out how the hell he was going to get _out_ of it, should not be just lying here like a useless lump, but for now, he was just going to…

…rest.

Jett went back to the dark.

* * *

When he woke again his head was marginally clearer and his stomach was instead the one making its intense discomfort known—

—and he could smell food.

Jett turned his head, slowly—remembering his mistake when he first woke up—and spotted a plate of food on the floor.

He eyed the door, which appeared to be thick steel with one small, barred window at the top; it was probably about the size of his hand.

So someone had come in while he slept and left him food. He was clearly more out of it than he thought. But he wasn't one to deny food when he needed it.

The problem was how he was going to get it when he was flat on his back and had very unpleasant memories of the _last_ time he moved.

Jett continued to eye the plate, pondering, and finally decided the risk was worth the food. Very, very slowly, he started to sit up. Everything spun for a moment and he paused, but eventually his vision cleared and he kept going.

Belatedly he realized that he probably had a concussion.

But he was finally sitting up. Next challenge: standing. Tentatively, he set one foot on the floor. So far, so good.

He put the other foot down.

He tried to sta—"Holy _shit—!" _

There was a small crash as Jett collapsed back onto the cot and dropped his head into his hands, trying to get control of his violently spinning vision. Just how hard had Mathias hit him?

That wasn't the issue though—he had clearly hit him damned hard—so Jett stopped thinking and instead focused on trying to breathe and _not_ upchucking whatever might remain in his stomach.

It was several minutes before he looked up again, only to level a glare at the plate on the floor that seemed to be mocking his every effort.

"Fuck you," he growled, and then paused, a thought coming to him. He turned his head, searching—and found what he was looking for almost immediately.

A camera, perched in the very corner of the ceiling, trained on him. Whoever was on the other end was probably laughing their ass off at him.

"And fuck you too!" he called about as loudly as he could, which wasn't very loud. He let out an annoyed breath, renewing his glare at the plate.

…and then an idea came to him, and he smirked.

If they wanted a show, well, he'd give them one. Instead of attempting to stand again, he slowly slid to the floor, and then began the slow scoot across it to the plate.

The indignity was totally worth it when he was finally leaning against the door, plate of soup and bread resting on his knees. It actually tasted pretty good, too.

He steadfastly ignored the camera as he ate, and as he finally set the plate aside, only stared at the wall.

He wondered how long it would be before anyone showed up.

He wondered how his men were doing.

He wondered how long he'd been out and if they'd even noticed he was gone yet.

He wondered how long it would be before he could do anything but be this fucking worthless invalid.

He wondered how he was going to escape.

He wondered if he'd make it out alive.

His headache was splitting, now. He slowly scooted his way back over to the cot and flopped back onto it.

Jett stopped wondering and went to sleep.

* * *

He wakes again, only this time to the creak of the door.

Jett is upright in an instant, ignoring the slight spin of his head, reaching for—

—weapons he doesn't have, but Erik does.

And it is Erik standing there, gun trained on Jett, picking up the plate from the floor, clearly warning him not to move an inch or risk a bullet to the head. There is no hesitation in his gaze. Jett knows he will shoot.

Jett can only stare at this man, his once friend, and wonder at how it ever came to this.

Erik leaves without a word.

Jett stares into the dark for a long, long time.

* * *

After Erik, Jett realizes he is losing track of time. He thinks he's been here a few days, but he doesn't know how long he was out originally, and the concussion is forcing him to sleep more than he'd like. The food was dinner food, but he has no idea how long it was there before he woke up. Maybe hours.

They haven't questioned him yet, though, so it can't have been _that_ long…then again, they may be doing it on purpose. Who knows?

But he does know the stir craziness is already starting to set in, just a little. He lies on the cot and searches the cell with his eyes, knowing the camera is watching his every move.

As he expected, there is nothing even remotely useful for the beginnings of an escape plan.

But he can feel another ache besides the one in his head, a dull throbbing ache in his heart that keeps him searching, futilely, nonetheless.

He knows that ache well.

His men are dying.

He does not sleep.

He has never felt more useless.

* * *

...I need to learn to keep track of my verb tenses...ah well. Erik is Norway, in case you were wondering.

'Bout three times as long as the last one but about a thousand times more boring...well, it'll get less boring as time goes on, I promise.


	5. PART FIVE

**Saudade**

* * *

PART FIVE

* * *

The days are running together.

Other than the meals brought by nameless grunts and the once or twice he is allowed to shower—Erik never returns—Jett is left alone to stare at the ceiling and the walls and the corners and the tiny little window in the door which he discovers, when he can finally stand, is too high for him to see more than the ceiling outside.

And he can stand. And walk. And pace around his increasingly claustrophobic cell, working himself into agitation as escape plan after escape plan is shot down by sheer logic.

He thinks he's been here at least a week, because after a few wake-and-sleep cycles he found the spinning in his head wasn't quite so terrible anymore—enough that he could perform the aforementioned actions without wanting to collapse, vomit, pass out, or all three.

He is healing. But he is still just as trapped and just as useless and just as much in the dark about what is going on outside.

He hasn't seen nor heard neither hide nor hair of another nation since Erik.

He tries to pretend some small part of him isn't _hoping_ to.

He just wants to ask why he's still alive.

Jett keeps pacing and the ache in his heart keeps growing deeper.

* * *

He doesn't know how long it's been, but wherever he is, it's been found. What starts as one distant explosion turns into nightly raids that leave his ears ringing for hours.

Apparently they're underground, though, otherwise he expects they would be long dead and buried.

Jett paces and counts explosions and tries not to think about what will happen if the bombs do reach them.

A nation in a cell is a nation not on the battlefield, helping his people.

But a nation in a cell is also blameless captors should he be bombed to pieces by his own side.

He's had hours upon hours alone to pace and to think, and he knows: they do not want him for information. It's worthless to try and make him talk. Nothing short of death will turn him against his own people; this, he knows Mathias knows, and therefore they know.

He will let them try to break him to pieces, and succeed, before he ever breathes a word.

So he knows: they just want him out of the way.

And if he accidentally dies in the process, well,

So be it.

_And so it goes. _

* * *

_No. _

_No. _

_No. _

_Nononono__**no— **_

Jett's mental mantra breaks off as another bomb explodes over his head, his breath stuttering.

But it is not the bombs that are breaking him.

The single light bulb in the center of the room is flickering. Silently he pleads with it not to give in.

_Please—_

Another explosion, closer than ever before.

The light goes out.

Jett is alone in complete, claustrophobic darkness with nothing but explosions to keep him company.

He curls up into a ball, knowing the eye of the camera is blind to him now—and even if it wasn't, he wouldn't care.

He curls up into a ball on his tiny cot—shuts his eyes and waits for the world to end.

* * *

He wakes.

It is silent.

It is dark.

Someone is watching him.

Somewhere between the last bomb and now he drifted into a fitful doze, punctuated by violent starts as he forced himself to wake up before he could begin to dream.

Whoever they are, they are standing right outside his cell. They are silent. They do not move. But he can feel them watching.

In the darkness he catches a flash of eyes—familiar eyes.

There is a crackling noise and Jett swings an arm in front of his face as the light flickers back to life, squinting at the sudden brightness.

By the time he can see again, they are gone.

He sleeps and dreams of the color blue.

* * *

In the morning—how many mornings has it been, now? Is it even morning?—Jett speaks.

"Hey," he drawls to one of the grunts who brings him food, noting how the man's eyes flick up in surprise—he hasn't spoken to anyone but himself the entire time he's been here. He's sure they've been taking bets on his sanity. "Don't s'pose it would be too much to ask for you deliver a message, mate?"

The man immediately rolls his eyes and makes for the door with the abandoned plate. Jett sits up, indignant.

"Oi! 'm not askin' you to commit treason or anythin', s'just a message to your…superior, should you see 'im."

The lingering pause on the word 'superior' does not go unnoticed. The man turns, a brow arched.

"I do not deliver the words of prisoners."

His voice is heavily accented, clearly Danish, and the moment he is done speaking he sets about leaving again, clearly intent on ignoring him. Jett just rolled his eyes at his back. "Well, just in case you change your mind, do me the favor of deliverin' _these_ words to one Mathias Køhler—"

The man has already closed the door and is starting down the hall, but Jett only raises his voice.

"Tell 'im I didn't think I loved such a _coward."_

* * *

Sorry about the slightly inconsistent accent...I originally didn't use it, but since the installments were so spaced in the beginning it just started seeping in and I never bothered to change it...

Disjointed, just the way I like it. =3= Though maybe a bit much...

Anyhow, next up: interlude.


	6. INTERLUDE

**Saudade**

* * *

INTERLUDE**  
**

* * *

Jett doesn't know if his words make it to Mathias. In all honesty, he doesn't care.

In fact, he's finding it hard to care about much of anything, anymore—

—other than the ache that grows deeper with each passing day. Heat flashes in his veins only to be replaced by burning cold; moments of deceiving clarity are replaced by moments of frightening disorientation.

More than once he finds himself on the floor with no memory of how he got there.

His head has healed. It is not his own pain, but the pain of his nation—which might as well be his own for all he can separate the two.

He can feel the tide turning against them. He can feel the death, the pain, the destruction.

He can feel his heart fraying at the edges.

He wonders what sort of world they'll end up in.

—_the bombs— _

—_draw— _

—_closer— _

* * *

The light keeps going out. Each time, he finds it a little harder to notice.

After all, the one time it stays out is probably the one time it won't truly matter if it comes back or not, isn't it?

The dark is still terrifying but—

—maybe it's just because, like everyone else, he doesn't know what's on the other side of it.

* * *

In a rare silence, Jett sleeps—truly, deeply, sleeps. He has paced and worried himself to exhaustion.

And yet, he still dreams.

—_in my dreams I see—_

Fragments of thoughts, of wishes, of memories_— _

—_everything that used to be— _

When he dreams, he is, for however brief a time, happy.

—_once upon a time, I knew happiness— _

He can forget what is and lose himself in what was.

—_**beyond**__ my wildest dreams— _

In what he knows might—_will—_never be again.

—_once, I loved you—and this I know is true—_

They are beautiful dreams.

—_once, oh once— _

Jett wakes up. _(He always wakes up.)_

His face is wet. He shuts his eyes and swallows the pain, buries it in the deep and the dark.

Even though it tastes like salt_— _

like the sea_— _

like—

—_like home._

—_once, you loved me too—_

* * *

Sorry for the delay, I was on vacation with limited internet and then lacked motivation...anyhow, like I said when I originally published this, this worked best as an interlude, what with the shortness and all...

MY ONE WONDERFUL REVIEWER, YOUR REPLY IS SITTING IN MY OUTBOX I NEED TO GO FINISH THAT I'M SORRY.


	7. PART SIX

**Saudade**

* * *

PART SIX

* * *

Jett may have slowly learned to sleep through the bombs, but even he is not immune to the strangling feeling of smoke and dust taking up residence in one's lungs.

He wakes, coughing violently, nearly choking in his desperation to get the offending substances out of his system, but it's no use—what comes out is quickly replaced.

His cell is filling with settling dust and smoke, and even as he looks around with wide, watering eyes, still coughing up a lung, there's a distant whistle and then a massive, thundering explosion, so loud it might as well be right above his head—

—more dust falls, and through the roar and the sudden ringing in his ears he hears a clatter as what sounds like part of the ceiling crumbles in the corner.

The bombs have finally reached them, he realizes with sudden, cold clarity.

_It _is_ right above his head._

The base is collapsing.

_He is about to die. _

* * *

In all honesty, there have been many times in his life Jett has been certain he was about to die.

The first he remembers is when he wandered from his mother when he was barely a toddler—

—and found himself face to face with a wild, hungry coyote.

He didn't understand what it meant to die, then—or to lose someone, or to hurt in a way that wasn't physical.

All he knew was that later, when his mother had swept him close and there was a strange dampness in his hair—

—he knew that the strange ache in his heart was something he never wanted to feel again.

* * *

He felt it again, many years later, watching his mother slowly fade away and being absolutely helpless to stop it.

She had been his rock and his heart for centuries, the only constant to keep him anchored as he grew and lived and _lived— _

—yet his people grew and lived and _died. _

She had always been there even when he wasn't there for her.

He is there to hold her hand and watch her take her last breath.

She tells him to live, and he swears that he will—

—although some part of him, the part that aches almost more than he can bear, wonders if it's a promise worth keeping.

* * *

World War One.

Of course, back then, it's not World War One, because no one is thinking that after so much death, so much destruction, so much loss, that there could _ever_ be another—no, then it's the Great War, though he really can't see what's so great about it.

There's mud, and there's rain, and there's death, and there's pain, and there's really not much else to be said.

It's his chance to prove himself, and he tries so, _so_ had, he really does, but he is not a battle-hardened nation.

He's not yet used to having to pick himself up and go on, no matter what—though he does learn quickly.

The one time he can't pick the pieces up fast enough is the one time he finds himself flat on his back in the hospital, fevered and injured and bleeding and rambling in languages long forgotten by most, and in his rare moments of consciousness, certain he will die.

He doesn't.

Any innocence left does, though.

* * *

World War Two.

He's such a fool to believe that anything would be different than last time. The planes are coming, the bombs are dropping, and he is _standing_ there, useless to do anything to stop it—

—he races towards the oil tanks as though he has a prayer.

All it does is put him in the way when everyone's prayers go up in smoke and flames and a deafening explosion.

For a few moments he can hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing—there is only roaring and the faint sting of tears in his dirt battered eyes, the sensation of overwhelming pressure and heat—

—and then the taste of blood, and the feeling of fire spreading across his face like magma through cracks in the earth—

Shrapnel has driven into the bridge of his nose, cracked it open, laid him bare.

He cannot move save to collapse, to fall, to break.

He cannot tell the difference between his blood and his tears, between the pain in his body and the pain in his heart.

Lying here, surrounded by smoke and ash and flame, Jett is certain he might die.

If he must, he prays it will be quick.

* * *

Rejection.

It is a cold, ruthless blade that makes quick work of ripping his heart out and dashing it against the ground.

He can see the shock, the denial, the refusal plain as day in Mathias's eyes.

_You shouldn't have told him, you shouldn't have told him, you _idiot_ you shouldn't have said a word—how can you expect him to understand when he doesn't even _remember—

But he did, and this is the price he pays.

He tells him it's alright, that it's understandable, that it's his own fault for saying anything when he clearly shouldn't have.

He doesn't lie. But that doesn't mean his heart isn't breaking just a little—_or a lot—_underneath it all.

Jett never thought he'd let anyone hold so much of his heart.

And he never thought having it handed back to him like that could hurt—

—so—

—very—

—much.

_Don't you know? There are more ways to die than to just— _

—_die. _

_A part of you can die inside. _

_But you keep smiling. _

* * *

So many times, Jett has been certain of his impending death, in one way or another.

But this time…is different, in that this time, a part of him almost…welcomes it.

After all, there's not much left for him to live for.

A broken world, a broken country, a broken heart—he thinks, if not for this damned near-immortality, he might already be gone.

Going would be nice.

Apparently, though, Mathias doesn't feel the same, because at that moment the door to Jett's cell bangs open and reveals said nation in a whirl of smoke and dust, coughing and gesturing wildly.

"Out!" he yells, and then doubles over as another set of coughs wracks his lungs. Jett can only stare, certain he is hallucinating.

Or at least, he is until Mathias looks up, glares at him, stalks across the room, and drags him bodily by the arm from the cell. "I said _out_, ya _idiot_, do ya _have_ a death wish—"

Jett finally snaps out of his almost-stupor and snatches his arm back, moving on his own. "_No, _just a little shocked that you're botherin' to rescue a _prisoner." _

—nonetheless, they are both running, now, Jett not thinking twice about trusting Mathias to lead him out of this hellhole—

Jett puts the flinch down to the bomb that exploded right above them at that moment.

"Please do suspend your disbelief for a moment, then, so I can get us_ both_ out of here _alive—"_

"Like you actually give a _damn—" _

Jett doesn't know where this bitterness is coming from. Probably mostly from the sentiments of his own country, but likely some of it from being trapped in a cell for God knows how many weeks with nothing but his own thoughts for company.

He does know that suddenly he is slamming up against Mathias's back as the other stops, turns, steps closer with some unidentifiable anger in his eyes.

"What are you—we have to keep—"

"Do ya think I'm _heartless,_ Kirkland, is that it? Just because our _countries—"_

Jett never finds out just what about their countries. His idiotic antagonism and Mathias's rise to it have cost them precious time.

An explosion sounds, the loudest yet, so close it might as well be happening around them_—_

—_and it _is_— _

He can hear the roar of flames and the whistle of smoke and beneath it all, a faint, rising rumble, the terrible noise of stone breaking beneath insurmountable stress—

—_it's caving in— _

Jett flings his arms over his head and throws himself to the ground, noticing out of the corner of his eye Mathias vanishing in a shower of dust and stone before his vision is obscured and there is nothing—

—_darkness—_

—_roaring—_

—_pain—_

—_pressure—_

—_screaming?— _

_I suppose I'm going after all. _

—_and it all— _

—_goes— _

—_to— _

—_black._

* * *

Original comment on this chapter: ...I regret nothing at all.

Still don't.

A lot of the events in this are based on the headcanon of the roleplayers these interpretations of Mathias and Jett were based on, but I think the only one that really needs a quick explanation is the WWII scene: in the Australia roleplayer's headcanon, the bandage on Aussie's nose covers a scar caused by flying shrapnel during the bombing of Darwin in February 1942. More background on that can be found in the Wikipedia article "Military History of Australia During World War II."

Any questions, feel free to ask!


	8. PART SEVEN

**Saudade**

* * *

PART SEVEN

* * *

It is dark.

It is quiet.

No flames, no explosions, no screaming, no _pain. _

_This_, Jett thinks, _is death. _

_Peace and quiet._

Jett dreams of happier times, things he hasn't let himself dream of in forever, because he supposes in death he can dream whatever the hell he wants.

Even if it hurts.

* * *

It is dark.

"_Benjamin, the base is nothing but a pile of rubble—" _

"_You don't think I don't know that, I was there when you finally blew it to pieces—" _

* * *

It is his first world meeting and Jett is determined not to mess it up. He dons the formal wear Arthur forces upon him without complaint, suffers in silence through the older man's attempts—and inevitable failure—to tame his hair, even though he hardly needs someone to do it for him, now, is quiet and as un-fidgety as he can make himself as he walks beside him into the—to him—absolutely massive building the meeting is to be held in.

He knows that Arthur is expecting him to make a fool of himself, is certain that he will.

He is determined to prove him wrong.

He is quiet, he is polite, he is courteous, and he only regrets not bringing a few of the spiders from that nest he discovered the other day _once_.

All of it goes straight to hell in a hand basket when a tall, broad man with hair just as spiky as Jett's ambles over, a grin on his face, says an almost polite hello to Arthur, and then quite bluntly asks, "So who's the runt?"

Indignation flushes hot through Jett's system. "I am not a runt!" he protests. "I'm Australia!"

He ignores Arthur's warning hiss beside him in favor of glaring at the blonde.

Said blonde only raises an eyebrow at him. "Even 'is name's runty. And womanish."

And Jett could punch him. It's sheer force of will that he doesn't.

Arthur only sighs, subtly casting a warning glance at him. "This is Australia," he says curtly. "Australia, this is Denmark. Denmark, if you've nothing more to say than to insult my colony, we'll be taking our leave, now."

'Denmark' rolled his eyes. "If ya insist. Don't go gettin' your bloomers in a twist, Arthur."

And then he left.

Jett _really _regretted not bringing those spiders, now.

* * *

_It is quiet. _

"_You are letting your emotions cloud your judg—" _

"_Arthur, Jett is _alive_. I can _feel_ him. Are you going to abandon him down there?" _

"_It's not _possible—"

"Arthur."

"…_we'll look." _

"_That's all I ask." _

* * *

The next time they are face to face, it is years later.

In fact, it is the first meeting following the First World War, and halfway through Jett makes his escape, going completely unnoticed by the arguing nations.

He is so very tired of fighting.

He finds himself outside, on a bench, staring at the sky and wondering if he can leave for Australia that day.

If he can leave altogether.

He still aches. The wounds have healed, physically at least, but they still ache, _more_ than just physically.

He wants to sleep.

"Not so much of a runt now, are ya."

The voice is soft, almost conversational, but it still makes Jett's head jerk up nearly fast enough to get whiplash.

He relaxes only slightly when he realizes it's just Denmark.

He goes back to staring at the sky. "…s'pose not," he murmurs.

Denmark sits next to him. He is surprisingly quiet.

"Does it ever get easier?" Jett asks, out of the blue.

Denmark shrugs. "Not really," he replies. "Ya get used to it, though."

"That's a painful thought," Jett says softly. "Getting' used to this. Have you, Denmark?"

Denmark laughs. "Ya can call me Mathias, Aussie," he says, and completely evades the question.

Jett supposes that is answer enough. "…Mathias, then. 'm Jett."

* * *

_There is pain. He does not want pain. _

_He has had enough pain. _

"_Benjamin, we've looked, but there's no telling how far this base goes—and they're not being forthcoming with anything useful." _

"_You'd think they don't care that _their_ nation might be down there too…" _

"…_it's been nearly five days. Are you still hoping?" _

"_Not going to stop until I have a reason to." _

"…_you're hopeless." _

"_Should I assume I'll be continuing the search on my own?" _

"…_no. I owe him at least this much for dragging him into this." _

* * *

They are friends, and though some might see it as unlikely, they fit in unexpected ways. The miles are difficult, but they are so laid back it's hard to mind.

—_of course, later, they would mind more than they ever thought they could— _

They are so laid back, and their meetings are so few and far between, it takes Jett years to figure out that somewhere along the line, he fell in love Mathias.

Because they are a cliché, Mathias is with Elizaveta.

Because they are a cliché, Jett avoids him like the plague once he realizes how he feels.

Because they are a cliché, Mathias gets tired of that pretty damned fast and tracks him down after a world meeting, drinking only slight irresponsibly.

Because they are a cliché, Jett tells him to leave him the fuck alone.

Because they are a cliché, Jett is too drunk to realize how much those words hurt and

Because he is a cliché, he is too blind to realize that maybe, just maybe, Mathias feels the same way.

* * *

_He wants to sleep. He doesn't want to come back. _

"_Finally got some worthwhile information. The cell block was in this area." _

"…_you think…?" _

"_We've not got many other options. Even a nation can only handle so much. Jett's been down there for nearly a week, underneath God knows how many tons of rock, with no food or water to speak of…" _

"_Be more obvious why don't you." _

"_Just stating facts. And fact is, Benjamin, _you_ need to own up to the fact that no matter what you _feel, _we might be on a mission to dig up Jett's corpse." _

"…_I know." _

"…_I apologize. That was…cruel." _

"_You don't need to apologize for the truth." _

* * *

It's wrong. It's so wrong, wrong,_ wrong_, what they're doing, the way they're acting, Jett _knows_ this but he can't—

—make it—

—stop.

Mathias and Elizaveta are together—again—and Jett knows he should keep his distance, should back the hell off, should leave them to be happy, because he doesn't even know if Mathias _knows _the things he makes him feel—

—just—

—by—

—smiling—

It hurts to be near him and it hurts not to be near him and like a cliché Jett wonders what on Earth is the point of love if all it seems to do is _hurt. _

He know he needs to say something or—

—he needs to leave.

_Maybe both._

* * *

_Voices. There are voices intruding on his peace. _

"_Arthur- ARTHUR! I found him! Jett, Jett can you hear me—" _

_Go away. _

"_Benjamin, you can't go down there, it's not stable—" _

"_I don't give a damn. _Jett_—_"

_Leave me be. _

"_Is he breathing?" _

"_I can't tell, there's so much dust and blood and—is that Denmark—?" _

_Let me have my memories. They're better than this. _

"—_I'll get another stretcher—" _

Anything_ is better than this. _

* * *

The memories are running together.

Flashes, snippets, fragments, a rush of pain and happiness and _love— _

_What did I do right to meet you? _

He remembers everything, clear as a bell.

_What did I ever do right by life to deserve the time I had with you? _

Every moment—every word—every touch—every hurt—every joy—

—_There is no forgetting— _

And the 17 words that ended everything they had tried so very hard to build and so desperately to keep.

_Do what you have to do, and I'll do the same. _

…_for what it's worth, I'm sorry. _

He's done what he's had to do. He's given everything to this fight he never wanted.

_Am I allowed to be happy yet? _

The memories are nice. But he knows—

"_I don't have the strength."_

—they're just memories.

They happened. And they're gone.

_What's left?_

* * *

_It is dark._

"_He's breathing!" _

"_Gently, now—" _

"_He's going to be okay, right?" _

"…_I don't know. It truly depends on him." _

"…_how bad did he—" _

"_Bad. No matter how much he denied it. Jett has never been fond of war." _

"_Are any of us?" _

"_I could name a few. But this war in particular…" _

"_Would he really—" _

"_He might." _

"_Don't you dare fucking die on us, Jett Kirkland. You're not allowed to give up like that. Like _this.

* * *

_It is quiet. _

"_Benjamin, you're needed at the negotiations." _

"_I don't care." _

"_Jett's not going anywhere." _

"_I don't see anyone else staying with him. He's not going to wake up alone." _

"…he_ woke up you know." _

"_Punch him for me, would you?" _

"_This is hardly his fault." _

"_Do it anyhow. Or stay here so I can go do it myself." _

"…_be there tomorrow." _

* * *

_He is sleeping. Sleep is nice. Maybe he should stay. _

"_The _fuck _are _you _doing here?" _

"…_I just wanted to see how he's doin'." _

"_Well you came, you saw, and you're _not welcome_. Go away." _

"_Free hospital." _

"_I'll give you a free punch to your not-so-pretty-at-the-moment face." _

"_Since when are ya this…violent?" _

"_War tends to cause violence, or did the rubble damage your head too."_

"_Look, I—"_

"_Just go." _

"…_fine." _

* * *

_There is no pain. Surprising, really._

"_It's been over two weeks."_

"_I can count the days, thank you."_

"…"

"_I know what you're thinking."_

"_Do you now."_

"_I do. And I'm telling you to stop thinking it, right now."_

"_Unless you have a better idea—"_

"_Arthur. Drop it."_

"_You're _hopeless."

* * *

_Voice. There is a voice intruding on his peace._

"Jett, I…I don't really…know what to say. Don't even know if ya can hear me."

_I can hear you._

"I guess ya don't really…owe me anythin', do ya? Not after…all that happened."

_It was never about owing._

"But…you're stronger than this. I know ya are. Ya always have been."

_No, I'm not._

"I'm not askin' this for me, not at all…s'for everyone else that cares about you."

_Ha. Blind idiots._

"…come back? An' just, give everythin'…a chance?"

_I've lost track of how many chances I've given._

"…_give me one more chance to do right by you."_

* * *

Jett wakes up.

It is dark—

—It is quiet—

—And he is alone.

He could weep for the irony of it all.

_And so it goes._

* * *

Only three parts left, folks. Happy ending - or as happy of one as I'm capable of writing - slowly coming into sight. Ask any questions you might have, though I hope this chapter may have cleared up a few about their relationship! ...and to the three separate people who have reviewed, you are absolutely glorious, just so you know.


	9. PART EIGHT

**Saudade**

* * *

PART EIGHT**  
**

* * *

"Jett, are you sure you want to—"

"I'm sure."

"It's only been a week since you woke up, the doctor said you need to rest more—"

"The doctor doesn't know jack-shit about me."

"…Jett…"

"…I know. Might as well get it over with."

"If you weren't bandaged six ways to Sunday I would hit you and tell you you're pushing yourself too hard and too fast."

"Well you just did, and without resortin' to violence! I'm so proud, Benny!"

"Don't call me that. And you're just going to ignore every word I say, anyway."

"You know it. Now are you goin' to help me or do I have to wheel myself there, doctor's orders be damned?"

"…you're hopeless."

"Love ya too, bro."

* * *

Despite his bravado, Jett is scared. Of what, he's not exactly sure, but as he and Ben draw closer to the room where the last of the negotiations are taking place, something in his chest grows tighter and tighter and more than once his grip on the arms of his chair tightens to the point that pain goes lancing through his arms and he has to physically force himself to let go, ignoring the disapproving looks from the other.

If he doesn't do this now he knows he'll never forgive himself down the road.

The room is empty when they arrive and Jett happily ignores the pompous name cards and gestures Ben to wheel him to a nice, secluded seat next to the window where he can close his eyes and enjoy the sun soaking into his back and pretend he's home and—

—_not half broken— _

—_not an invalid— _

—_not a coward— _

Minutes pass and more people begin to trickle in, all looking worse for wear, though Jett cannot help the small, tired smirk that crosses his face when nearly all of them look startled to see him.

He is no sight for sore eyes, he knows. Though in a dress shirt and nice trousers, that is his only concession to the formality of these negotiations, because his body is too fucked up for him to give a damn.

A week trapped beneath several tons of stone left his legs, bruised, battered, and nearly broken—certainly useless—and his arms not much better off. By some miracle he ended up in a position that his torso didn't suffer the same fate—at least not on such a grand scale—and he supposes that's the reason he's even alive.

Nonetheless, he's stuck in a wheelchair for God knows how long and any attempts at some form of self-sufficiency—such as, y'know, wheeling himself—are firmly shot down by the simple fact that doing anything much more than the exercises his doctor advised with his arms hurts like _hell. _

He doesn't mind that much, at least when he reminds himself that the move to throw his arms over his head and let them take the brunt of the damage saved him from major head trauma.

He tries to remind himself of all of this, of just how lucky he is, on the days he wakes up and stares at all the bandages and tries to ignore all the aches and just feels utterly useless.

He tries to remind himself that he could be dead, like so many others.

He tries to ignore the little niggling voice that asks if he truly believes he's better off.

* * *

By the lunch break Ben practically has to lunge for the handles of Jett's wheelchair to keep him from wheeling himself out of the conference room at top speed.

"Get me out of here," Jett hisses—and no that is not desperation, no it is _not—_and to his eternal relief Ben complies without a word, even taking care to avoid a certain group of five as he gets them out as fast as Jett's limited maneuverability will allow.

Jett steadfastly ignores the eyes he can feel burning into the back of his head.

_He will— _

—_not— _

—_look— _

—_at— _

—_him. _

* * *

"I can't _stand_ them."

"Jett—"

"I just—how can _anyone_ be that fuckin' _petty?" _

Jett has no idea where they are in the building—Ben just started walking and every time he tried to stop Jett told him to keep going—all he knows is that he is angry and tired and hurting and the petty people he spent the last four hours listening to argue back and forth have only made it a thousand times worse.

"…I have to go back in there, don't I."

"…you know you won't forgive yourself if you don't."

"Four hours ago you would have gladly wheeled me out of there and not looked back."

"Like I said, as if you'd listen if I said otherwise."

"…touché."

Jett slumps in his seat and closes his eyes and Ben finally stops, looking down at him with a measure of concern. "…you okay?" he asks, softly, and Jett knows he isn't asking about his wounds.

"…I don't know."

"You really don't have—"

"'e's in there."

Ben stops at Jett's barely audible words, and his expression goes sad. "…you have to face him eventually," he replies, quietly, gently.

"I _know_ that, I just…I don't know if I even know _how_ anymore. Everything's different…"

"Is it really so different? Nations fight. That's a fact of our life. If we can't learn to pick up the pieces and…move forward…then what's the point of it all?"

Jett is silent.

_The point is there are so many pieces I don't know if it's possible to pick them all up and piece them together again. _

_Or if I can let anyone close enough try. _

…_even _him.

"Let's go back," he whispers, and Ben can only comply.

He wishes the silence weren't so loud with everything he doesn't know how to say.

* * *

Guest reviewer, hope this answers your question. (: So here we are! They're both alive and on the mend, and being _idiots_. Welp, they've still got two chapters to redeem themselves...ehe~ AND HEY HERE'S BENNY BOY! Benjamin is New Zealand, for anyone wondering.


	10. PART NINE

**Saudade**

* * *

PART NINE

* * *

Jett heals.

It's a slow, arduous process and more than once he is reduced to practically begging whatever God might be listening for it to be over already so he can stop hurting—

—move forward—

—and start trying to forget.

But he's worn out—mind, body, _everything_—and he knows that he will heal as fast as he heals and there's not much he can do about it except bull through it on his own.

He's used to _that_, at least.

* * *

The weeks pass. The negotiations end. Everyone retreats to rest, reconnect, rebuild. Ben stays with Jett for a few weeks, but Jett finally—politely—sends him home when the doctor declares his arms healed enough to move around on his own.

He doesn't need to be coddled or looked after. He just needs normal—or as normal as he can get, confined to a wheelchair and the lower floor of his house.

He needs to be alone.

That may not be the best—

—but it's the only way he knows.

* * *

"_Jett, you're sure you're alright over there?" _

"Ben, for the last time, I'm _fine_. Ya helped me move everythin' around so I could get to it before you left, ya made me stock enough food to last an army a month, I've got plenty of paperwork to fill my time and believe me, it does. The normalcy of paperwork is actually…nice."

"…_normally that alone would have me questioning your sanity, but I know what you mean." _

"Normal all around is just really…nice. Though I do miss sleepin' in my own bed."

"_I told you you shouldn't have bought that couch." _

"Oi! Don't diss my couch!"

"_Jett, it is a _rock_." _

"I don't diss your furniture."

"_Because my furniture is, unlike yours, actually fit for human habitation." _

"…what_ever_, Benny."

"…_do me a favor and hit your_self_ for that one." _

"Will do. Not."

"…"

"I can hear that eyeroll, Ben."

"_Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just…you're _sure_ you're alright?" _

"I'm _fine_, Christ. Doc says I can move to crutches in another week or two."

"…_that's not what I meant." _

"…I know."

"…_you're not going to tell me, are you." _

"Nope. There's nothin' to tell, anyhow. 'm fine."

"_Sure. Just…take care of yourself, alright?" _

"Will do."

* * *

Jett didn't lie. Not precisely. He's fine enough, or at least he considers himself fine enough for someone who was buried alive for a week.

A touch of claustrophobia—well, there aren't too many small spaces in his house, and he spends most of his time on the front porch, anyhow.

A couple of new nightmares to add to the regulars—well, at least they're quiet ones. For the most part. He can deal with it.

Finding it a little bit difficult to sleep at all when he's so painfully aware of the dark and the silence and the absolute _emptiness _around him—

—well, it's not so different from before, is it?

He keeps telling anyone who asks that he's fine, and he's sure if he says it enough—

—he might finally believe it too.

* * *

"…_Arthur says he's been asking after you." _

"…"

"_You should talk to him, Jett." _

"…"

"…_are you going to say something or am I going to keep talking to myself?" _

"I don't know what ya want me to _say_, Ben."

"…_I want you to tell me that you're actually trying to move forward and aren't just holed up feeling sorry for yourself! The war is _over_, Jett! You're allowed to care about your own happiness!" _

"I _am_ happy!"

"_You take a good, long, hard look at yourself and you tell me that's actually true." _

"…I hate you."

"_No, you love me. …and you still love him, Jett, don't try to tell me you don't." _

"…"

"_Jett, are you—" _

"…no. 'm not."

"_Jett…"_

"Ben, please just…_please_ just leave it _alone_."

"…_you're hopeless." _

"…I know."

* * *

It's 3:07 in the morning and Jett is wide awake. He tried to sleep, he really did, but four hours of sheep-counting and every other trick he can think of later, he's finally given up.

In his hands is his phone.

And on the screen is a number he can't remember the last time he called was.

It is dark.

It is quiet.

His hands are shaking.

He forces himself to press the button and holds the phone to his ear.

_Ring. Ring. Ri— _

"_Hallo?" _

Jett's heart seizes in his throat and before he can stop himself he hangs up, throws the phone to the end of the couch.

_Oh, you are a _coward.

The phone lights up. He doesn't look. He doesn't move.

The phone goes dark.

It doesn't light up again, and Jett doesn't sleep.

* * *

"Jett Kirkland, you fucking _liar—" _

"Ben—"

"Don't you _'Ben' _me, Jesus fucking _Christ_, I knew I shouldn't have listened to you when you said you were _fine—" _

"I _am _fine—"

"No you are fucking _not!" _

Jett sighs long-sufferingly. He _knew_ it was a bad idea to let Ben visit the day he got out of his wheelchair. Because of course he would insist on staying the night, and of course Jett would have one of the worst nightmares he's had in weeks, and of course it would scare the bejeezus out of Ben, and of _course _he would blow everything _entirely_ out of proportion.

"Look, it was just a nightmare—"

"Just a nightmare, _just_ a nightmare—Jett, I thought you were _dying_ or some shit, that's how loud you were being, that is not just a nightmare—"

"It's not like this happens _often, _not anymore_—" _

"That means it used to be worse, and you're the one that told me you were _fine!_ When was the last time you slept?"

Jett glares at him balefully. "Last night!"

Ben sighs. "Let me rephrase. When was the last time you slept _properly?" _

Jett falters.

Looks away.

A sigh.

"…you're going to drive me to an early grave, Jett."

"Not _my _fault you're such a hover mother."

"I am _not_."

Jett laughs. "Face it bro, ya _are. _Now are ya goin' to let me get the water I was after before ya oh-so-nicely nearly bowled me over, or…?"

Ben sighs again. "You go back to bed. I'll get it."

"Ben—"

"Jett."

"…fine."

Jett turns around and begins to slowly work his way back towards his room, wincing as the crutches dig into the underside of his arms. He's going to have to pad them tomorrow, especially since the doctor says he'll be on them for another couple of weeks.

"Jett…do you even know _what_ you were yelling?"

He freezes.

Oh, he knows what he yells, in the worst nightmares, in those between moments where he's almost awake but still trapped in the memory.

He knows all too well.

"Are you _ever _going to—"

"If I do, it'll be in my own damn time. Leave me the fuck alone, Ben."

"You and I both know that's the last thing you want. It's fucking _obvious_ to anyone who looks at you, no matter how much you try to deny it."

"Since when are ya my psychologist?"

"Since you won't let anyone _in_. Why are you so fucking _stubborn—_"

"Excuse me for not bein' all fuckin' sunshine and rainbows out my ass. Whatever. I'm goin' back to bed."

"Jett—"

"_Drop it,_ Ben!"

Jett doesn't wait to hear his reply. He makes his way into his room as fast as the crutches will allow and _almost_—but not quite—slams the door behind him.

Ben glares at said door. "Oh _fuck_ this."

When Jett wakes up in the morning, Ben is gone.

He can't help the unease that turns into full blown _foreboding_ when Ben refuses to return any of his calls.

* * *

_Dark. _

_No light. _

_Dark. _

_No sound. _

_Dark. _

_It's suffocating. _

_He can't move. _

_He can't breathe. _

_His own heartbeat is deafening._

_Everything's breaking. _

"_Mathias, _run—!"

* * *

It's the first world meeting after the war.

Jett considers not going, then realizes if he wants normal, wants to forget, the insanity of a world meeting is about as close as he's going to get.

He curses under his breath as just outside the meeting room, he gets his crutches and his legs confused and ends up in an undignified heap on the floor.

One more week. One more week until he's healed and off these blasted crutches and can finally set about forgetting _all_ of this.

—_oh, you _wish_ you could forget it all— _

"Need a hand?"

Jett freezes halfway off the floor, in the middle of being thankful that he's carrying a zipped bag instead of his briefcase, which would have burst all over the floor.

He looks up.

Mathias is standing there, looking about as surprised at his offer as Jett is that he offered it, one hand outstretched just slightly.

It is a long moment of thick silence before Jett can bring himself to move, to awkwardly clear his throat and say, "I've got it—"

—_no, his voice is not shaking— _

He stands, slowly, settles the crutches beneath his arms, ignores the hand until it finally, awkwardly, retracts.

"Thanks, though."

"…not a problem."

There's a strange catch in Mathias's voice, so unlike him that Jett can't help but look up again, just in time to catch a flash of—

—_pain, sadness, regret, _guilt_— _

—_something_.

But then it's gone and Mathias's eyes are flat and Jett looks away because—

—_it hurts—_

"Meetin's about t'start," Mathias says, softly, and Jett nods.

"Would ya mind—"

He gestures at the door with one crutch.

"Huh? Oh, not at all—"

Jett limps his way through the door, turns his head. "Thanks."

He tries to smile. He really does. All he manages is a quirk of the lips that's closer to a grimace than anything else.

Mathias only gazes at him with that unfathomable look in his eyes. Jett's chest is uncomfortably tight.

"Jett!"

And there's Ben, Jett's savior, and he spares only one more quick nod at Mathias before turning in that direction. "Ben, ya dick, why haven't ya called me _back—" _

"I've been _busy—" _

He focuses on Ben and tries to ignore the devious glint in the shorter man's eyes, the look that says he's not telling the whole truth, that he's planning something and Jett might not like what it is.

He tries to ignore the eyes on the back of his head.

He tries to ignore the ache in his heart, something that feels strangely like…warmth.

* * *

Jett is going to smack Ben across the head with both his crutches when he finds the bugger.

They finally break for lunch after three hours of tedious speeches and debates, and Jett is fully prepared to nab a sandwich and some soda from the café before finding a nice secluded corner to eat and maybe catch a catnap in—he barely slept the night before—but no.

Instead Ben decides to latch onto him the moment the break is announced and drag him at top speed across the _entire fucking convention center_, insisting that he _has_ to see this so-called "Flag Room."

And then the brat realizes he left his bag back in the meeting room and _abandons_ Jett there, with no idea how to get back _and_ no food.

Scratch that, he's getting smacked _twice_ with both crutches.

Jett has to admit, the room is pretty nice. The flags of every nation, tapestry sized, cover the walls from ceiling to floor, and he smiles when he finds Australia's in the top of one of the corners. There are benches, and he sits with a sigh, actually enjoying the relative peace and quiet.

He closes his eyes.

_S'nice… _

Footsteps. Jett jerks, startled, immediately checks his watch—thank God, it's only been a few minutes—and then turns, exasperated indignation flaring—

"Ben, ya ass, I'm goin' to smack ya a new one for takin' off on me like that—"

He stops.

It's not Ben.

It's Mathias.

—_And suddenly that devious glint, the lack of probing questions, oh it all makes sense, he is going to _kill_ Ben— _

Mathias, to his credit, looks just as shocked to see Jett there. "I'm going t'kill Erik…" he mutters, before looking up and taking a hesitant step towards Jett. "Hey…looks like both of our families fucked us over…" he says, making his way over to sit _next to him on the bench. _

Jett barely manages not to back away. "…seems so," he replies, and hopes his voice doesn't sound as strangled as he feels. "Ya fall for the bag trick too?"

Mathias laughs. "Briefcase."

"Ah."

They lapse into silence, Jett awkwardly staring at the floor, Mathias awkwardly staring at the ceiling. "S'a nice room," Mathias says finally, quietly. "…course, it loses a bit of its meanin', with what we've been through…"

Jett snorts wryly. "Just a little."

Mathias turns, raises an appraising eyebrow at him. Jett refuses to look up from the floor.

"…s'been a…while since we talked."

_No, really. _

"How are you?"

Jett shrugs. "Alright, I guess," he replies. "Finally get off the crutches next week."

"…that's good t'hear."

Jett puts the sadness in that to his imagination. "How are you?" he asks back, because he supposes he should.

"Alright too, I suppose…jus' tryin' to get used to everythin' again…"

Mathias sighs, long and deep and heavy, and Jett finally looks up at him, taking in the slump to his shoulders and the bruises under his eyes. There are lines and shadows that weren't there before.

To say he looks tired is an understatement.

Jett wonders if that's what he's looked like to Ben all these weeks.

He wonders if that's what he looks like to Mathias.

"Know how that feels," he says, softly. "Though at least y'don' have to deal with _this…" _

He gestures at his half useless legs, watches Mathias glance at them and smile wryly. "No, guess not," he says. "Devil's luck, I suppose, that the rocks fell odd and made me a little cave…"

Jett chuckles a little, without humor. "I'd say I envy you, but that would mean I wish our positions were reversed, an' believe me, I wouldn't wish _this_ on anyone."

The other things he means by _this_ go unspoken.

—_the pain and the fear and the demons and the _pain—

Mathias has that unfathomable look again, and then Jett's heart _stops_ because there is a hand—

—on his cheek—

—and it's warm and calloused but oh-so-achingly _gentle, _so familiar that he could cry—

Whatever Mathias intended, he suddenly seems to realize that Jett has all but stopped breathing and he snatches his hand back as though it's been burned, his face sad and apologetic and just a little bit broken all at once—

"I—I'm sorry—"

Jett shakes his head, blinking furiously to get rid of the sudden burning feeling in his eyes. "S'fine," he says, cursing his voice and it's shaking—

"No s'not, I shouldn'tve—"

"_Mathias," _Jett interjects, forcing his voice to be stable. _"Stop_."

Mathias goes quiet, looking sad and guilty beyond belief. "…ya look exhausted." he says, quiet. "And sadder than I've ever seen ya."

Jett laughs.

Mathias jerks.

"Pot callin' the kettle black, Mathias?"

Mathias frowns. "Don't do that," he snaps.

"Do _what?" _

"Laugh it off. Pretend it doesn't matter."

"Like it _does." _

"_Clearly _it does, since both our families saw fit t'trick us into this!"

Jett goes quiet. "What, exactly, do ya think this _is_, Mathias?" he asks, impossibly soft.

Mathias falters.

Jett snorts. "Exactly," he murmurs.

There is a long, tense silence.

"…I meant it, ya know."

Jett looks up. "Meant what?" he asks.

"Back when…it started…I told ya I was sorry."

Jett's breathing hitches.

He remembers.

_For what it's worth, I'm sorry_.

"I…I meant that. Because…I've had centuries upon centuries t'get used t'this. T'the heartbreak. But ya haven't, and I threw ya into that with barely an apology an' without a goodbye…and there's not been a day I haven't regretted that, even though I know there's nothin' we could've done about it."

Jett's finding it hard to breathe again, even as he shakes his head.

"Ya talk like I ever blamed ya for any of it," he says, softly, and can't help a small, almost hysterical chuckle at the look of astonishment on Mathias's face.

"We always knew we might end up like that," he continues, still quiet. "Torn apart by duty…on opposite ends of a battlefield…and yeah, it hurt like _hell_—"

—hurts_ like hell— _

"…but ya don' need to blame yourself for.._.my_ inability to hold myself together."

Mathias is quiet for a long moment. "…but what if I do, anyway?" he asks, finally.

Jett just looks at him. "Then you're a fool," he replies, even quieter than before.

The silence is tense and thick again.

"…ya told that man t'tell me ya didn't think ya loved a coward."

Jett goes still, even as Mathias looks up at him with more vulnerability than he's ever seen in him.

"Loved?" he asks, barely audible.

Jett looks down, suddenly unable to meet those eyes that are pinning so much on him.

His heart aches and he doesn't understand exactly why.

"Jett, I…ya wouldn't remember, ya were unconscious at the time an' even if ya heard me…that's beside the point. After they found us…an' I woke up…I visited you."

Jett is still.

"An' I…I talked, because I didn't know what else t'do. It had been weeks an' ya weren't wakin' up an'…they were startin' t'say that maybe ya just didn't _want_ to…"

—_because some part of him didn't—_

Mathias pauses, just looking at him. "…I asked if ya would give me one more chance t'do right by you," he whispers.

The silence is deafening.

Jett doesn't look up.

And then, just as Mathias is about to give up, apologize, say his goodbyes, something shifts, and—

—there are fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt—

—arms around his neck—

—a face against his shoulder—

—something warm and damp against said shoulder—

—and a shaky, broken voice whispering, "As if I ever _couldn't, _you_ idiot—"_

Jett can't seem to stop the tears that he realizes now have been building for months, nor can he stop clinging like a child, but he can't bring himself to care, because sitting there, with Mathias's arms around him and his voice going '_sssh, sssh' _in his ear—even though he sounds to be on the verge of tears himself—

—everything finally goes

blessedly

peacefully

silent.

* * *

Original note: 13 pages, 3,098 words, dear god I am going to bed. HAVE YOUR SORT OF FLUFF.

Which really about sums it up. Only one more chapter to go! ...again sorry for any discrepancies in accents, I may go back and fix that later, but for now, eh.


	11. PART TEN

**Saudade**

* * *

PART TEN**  
**

* * *

Everything is different, and yet, at the same time, everything is the same.

Mathias goes back to Denmark. Jett goes back to Australia. There is some 10,000 miles between them, and it's still painfully far, but somehow, compared to before—

—it feels closer than ever before.

And yet, it's almost painfully awkward. Their first conversation, by phone a few days after the world meeting, is half silence and the other half nervous laughter because they just don't know how to talk to each other anymore—and the only things they do know how to talk about are those they'd rather forget.

But it gets easier as the weeks pass, and they spend hours talking about everything and nothing at all, relearning and rediscovering all the little things that so long spent fighting and just living day to day wore away.

And when Jett finally sees Ben again—the day the doctor finally proclaims him healed, takes his crutches, and sends him on his way—he doesn't hit him.

He hugs him, and tells him _thank you_, and he has never meant anything more.

* * *

_Ring. Ring. Ri— _

"_Hallo? Jett?" _

"M-Mathias—?"

"_Ja, s'me, unless ya thought ya were callin' someone else—Jett, are ya alright? S'three in the mornin' over there—" _

"…m'f-fine."

"_Y'don' sound it. …was it a nightmare?" _

"…m-maybe."

"_Yes, then. Tell me 'bout it?" _

"S'stupid. Doesn' matter."

"'_Course it does. 'Specially if you're callin' me at three a.m…." _

"…I c-can go if you're busy—"

"'_m not. Please Jett, jus'…talk t'me." _

"…the base. Like it always is."

"…"

"An' it's so dark, and everythin's so quiet, but I can hear _you_, I can hear ya breathin' _right next to me_, but then it _stops—" _

"_Jett—" _

"—an' then 'm _alone—" _

"Jett. _Calm down, please. Jus' breathe. Listen t'my voice. 'm here, 'm not dead, an' neither are _you_—" _

"But I—"

"_Sssh. Jus'…sssh. I know it's dark, an' I know 'm not there and ya don' know how much I wish I was, but jus'…calm down, okay? For me. …pretend 'm there, if that helps." _

"…well at least 'm used to doin' _that…" _

"…_are ya okay?" _

"…not really. Sorry."

"_Ya don' need t'apologize." _

"Can't exactly stop me."

"…_I know."_

"…"

"_..are ya feelin' _better,_ at least?" _

"…I guess. …Imissyou."

"_I miss ya too. I…y'know what, fuck it." _

"…Mathias?"

"_Go t'sleep, Jett. I'll see ya soon, okay?" _

"What—"

* * *

By the time the knock sounds on his door, Jett is half delirious from lack of sleep, having been too wired and terrified of what might be waiting in his subconscious to drift off again—and yet too irrationally terrified of the seemingly suffocating darkness around him to do more than lie there and stare at the ceiling.

He opens the door and he knows what he looks like, to Mathias—pale, haggard, dark shadows beneath his eyes, only of a depth that speaks clearly of the fact that this is a regular occurrence.

Mathias, to his credit, only steps in, nudging the door shut with his foot, and pulls him close, cradling him with a gentleness that makes all the tension go out of him in a rush.

He's so tired.

But Mathias is warm, and alive, and _there_, and for the moment, how tired he is doesn't matter in the face of how whole he feels.

* * *

And yet, their edges are even more rough, and ragged, and broken, and there are days—

—when he wakes and finds Mathias there and it takes him a moment to remember _why_ he's there—

—when he wakes and reaches for a gun he doesn't have because _he shouldn't be here how did I let my guard so low do what you have to do before he wakes up— _

—when he wakes, screaming, from another nightmare and it's dark and it's quiet and he's _alone— _

There are days Jett wonders if they are just too broken to make it again.

* * *

"I have _waited_ an' I have been _patient—" _

"I know—"

"An' I have been there for ya as best I could—"

"I _know—" _

"An' I know that after all I did I can't really ask anythin' of ya, but—"

"—Mathias—"

"—is it too much t'ask for just for just a _fragment of your trust?" _

Jett feels helpless beneath the onslaught of Mathias's justified anger—and terrified beyond belief that it's happening again, that he's _losing him— _

He knows that the rifts between them have been painfully slow in healing, and that it is mostly his fault—

_You idiot you absolute idiot of course you are of course he's tired of waiting for you— _

Some of that terror must be plain on his face because suddenly Mathias's face softens and he sighs, runs a hand through his hair.

"…'m sorry for raisin' my voice. I jus'…after so long, the fears start t'run away with ya…fears that maybe…"

_I'm doing something wrong. I'm making it worse. And you won't tell me because…you're _scared_ of me… _

Jett bites his lip. Yells at himself internally. Takes a hesitant step forward. Refuses to look up even as Mathias's eyes lock on him, wary and yet somehow…hopeful.

"No," he whispers. "_I'm_ sorry. It…s'hard…"

_To go back, with the minefield of memories in between. _

He swallows. He steps forward again.

And this time, when he is close enough to be held, instead, _he _is the one that holds, pulls him close, and when he sees the same naked vulnerability that he knows oh so well mirrored in those eyes—

—he closes_ his_ eyes and shoves the fear into the deep and the dark and he kisses him, soft and slow and—

—not perfect, never perfect, but close enough for them.

* * *

There are no promises. There are no expectations.

But as the days go by and Jett finds it easier and easier to laugh, to live, to trust—to _forget_—

—as the pieces of his heart finally start to fit themselves together again—

—he starts to realize, he doesn't need promises—he doesn't need expectations.

He has just what he needs when Mathias laughs with him, smiles at him, and when he finally, finally finds the courage to say, after so long keeping it inside, _"I love you—" _

—says, "_I love you too," _and—

Jett smiles.

He laughs.

He believes.

And—as best he can—

—he forgives, and he forgets.

* * *

Original note: …it's over. I'm just gonna…go cry in a corner now this story is my baby and it's _over_—

Which, again, about sums it up. The few of you who've stuck with this story, thanks for your support and your occasional reviews, they really meant a lot! I hope you enjoyed this, I really do. This be Erin, peacing out on _Saudade._


End file.
